


Don't Forget To Sing In The Lifeboats

by Ellie5192



Series: Chasing Rainbows [3]
Category: Battlestar Galactica, Battlestar Galactica (2003)
Genre: Episode Tag, Episode: s03e09 Unfinished Business, F/M, canon-friendly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-25
Updated: 2013-02-25
Packaged: 2017-12-03 14:12:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/699120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ellie5192/pseuds/Ellie5192
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Last night seems so strange in the light of morning; conversations that could only happen while hidden behind tents and high on native weed; fragile, and yet completely necessary"<br/>Follows Let It Rain in the series Chasing Rainbows. Can stand alone. A/R one-shot. Tag to the New Caprica events in Unfinished Business.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't Forget To Sing In The Lifeboats

She wakes with hair in her eyes and the smell of smoke all around. Beneath her ear, and the hand lightly resting near her nose, his light snores rattle inside his chest, not quite making audible sound. 

The morning light is soft and grey, and she knows they haven’t been asleep long. His arm still rests under her neck, snaking down to her waist, where his hand still lays flat on her hip bone. They had moved like that while talking, the start of an implication of something, but somehow their words had swept them away, and sleep had claimed them instead.

The smoke is in his jacket and her wind-swept hair, the taste just a little bit sweet in the back of her throat, and she hums as she buries her face back into the crook of his neck. She feels his breathing change, and knows he’s rousing from deep sleep, but there’s no urgency and she’s loath to want this feeling of serenity to end, so neither of them move. 

He flexes his fingertips against her hip and she returns the gesture against his chest.

Last night seems so strange in the light of morning; conversations that could only happen while hidden behind tents and high on native weed; fragile, and yet completely necessary. She can remember their talks only in fragments, as though having an out-of-body experience, but she knows herself well enough to know how candid she had been, and she knows him well enough that she doesn’t much care. She can’t bring herself to feel shy about the open invitation she left him; the implication that the next time he comes down to the planet her tent will more than suffice as quarters. He had seemed content at that, as though waiting for it, or at the very least wishing for it. They have never shied away from being honest with one another.

She regrets that they ended up only sleeping in the end; she doesn’t feel guilty about feeling that way either.

  
His breath tickles the top of her head as she feels him move, and he plants a small kiss in her hair. He hears her smile. 

  
“Good morning”, he rasps, throat raw from smoke and drink and a night under the stars. She hums again and rocks her head against his chest. 

  
“Anyone awake?” he asks.

  
“Not that I’ve seen”

  
They lay quietly for a long while, listening to the tell-tale sounds of the camp waking up after a very rough night. She feels untouchable in this space, as though there’s a barrier between her and the rest of the world, and she’s covered in a light grey haze. It has been a long time since she’s had a silly night, and longer still since she’s had a morning as intimate as this one. 

He hums, deep in his chest like a rumble, and kisses the top of her head again, making her smile.

She wonders how different her life would have been if she’d met him 20 years earlier, and recognises the thought as one she voiced last night. She’s pretty sure he had said nothing then. She’s almost certain that was when he’d opened his arms and let her rest fully against his side.

“I could get used to this” she mumbles. He pulls her against him in response. 

“Duty calls” he says after a moment, but makes no effort to move. 

“Maybe for some”

He chuckles at her, at this new-found peace he’s discovered in her since the school was set up. Though they can’t deny the dread that still lingers over Baltar’s continued popularity, he’s starting to see that despite the tent and the weather and the mud, she loves it here. She loves the feel of a watery breeze on her face and the interaction with the children, and the freedom- politically or otherwise- to lie on a pile of rags with him all night, smoking weed and talking about their hopes and dreams. Actually sleeping together. 

  
He can feel her optimism, and her vitality, and the sheer _life_ that runs through her, and no, he can’t regret this totally. He can’t bring himself to care much when he considers that she should be dead, yet here she is. They didn’t want to end up here, without Earth, without the Presidency, without the support of the people, but they are all about making the most of their circumstances, and there’s a lot to take advantage of in their current roles. Their ship may be sinking, but they can swim just fine.

  
“Shall we go see if your crazy kids are awake?” she asks. 

He can’t tell if she referring to his children or his crew, but it doesn’t much matter. He grunts an answer. She launches herself up, aided by his hand on her lower back giving her a shove, chuckling at her stiff joints. She holds out her hand and helps to hoist him up with a groan, and they take a minute to laugh at themselves- really laugh, deep from the belly- as they brush the residual dust off each other, hands lingering with a familiarity they shouldn’t possess but do anyway.

“That frakkin’ cot’s looking mighty fine right now” he says lightly, still smiling. 

She nods at him, rubbing out the tension in her lower back. 

“I’ll never complain about it again”

He barks out a laugh at her and offers his elbow, and they walk arm in arm towards the camp, that soft smile lingering and a sense of promise between them. 

Next time, he thinks. Next time we’ll build a bigger boat.

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from the book of the same name, written by Katheryn & Ross Petras. They borrowed it from Voltaire. He probably stole it from Cicero. You can borrow it too if you like.


End file.
